Eternal Companion
by koulagirl32
Summary: Roger has to deal with his emotions, and finds support and comfort in taking a new direction with his best friend. PG13 for now...
1. You'd miss New York before you could unp...

_Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. They belong to the late, great Jonathan Larson. I'm just borrowing these wonderful characters for a short time. Any lawsuit will get thrown out 'cos there's no way you'll get more than A$1000 out of me, 'cos my (lack of) assets and all my money don't add up to anywhere near that._

_Chapter titles are quotes from JL's musical "RENT", (conveniently the characters come from there as well). Bit different from my ordinary "One. Two. Three." isn't it?_

_Now enjoy! Please?_

__

Mimi's eventual death had brought Roger here, to Santa Fe. He always came here, when things got tough, when he couldn't deal with his emotions. He had never really been an emotional guy... not the he didn't have emotions. Mark had always been good at pointing out every time Roger had ever showed emotion... Mark would focus his camera on Roger and talk for what seemed like hours about it, his favourite being when Roger had to refused to go out of the loft or play his guitar, let alone talk to anyone who didn't make him, for a whole year after April died. 

Roger had always laughed at Mark when he did that. The man's face was almost hidden by the large camera. and to Roger it looked like Mark had a camera for a head, a camera with blond, spiky hair. Mind you, Mark's mind worked like a camera, at least is seemed like that to Roger. He wondered what Mark was doing now, whether he was filming, or watching old films. 

In fact, the filmmaker was doing neither. Roger didn't know it, but he was standing on the other side of the door, fidgeting. There was no camera nearby, only a piece of paper with an address on it. This time Roger had remembered to leave it. And so now Mark was here, in Santa Fe. It had been their dream, Mark and Roger and Collins, to come here and open a restaurant. A dream, that now, would never come true. 

Roger looked up when he heard a knock at the door. Broken from his quiet reminiscence, he rose from the floor and walked towards the door. Placing his hand on the handle, he paused to wonder who it could be, before opening the door. 

"MARK?!?" 

The smaller man was uncertain now. Roger had sounded almost angry, and he looked ready to run. Roger began to regret that. He should have remembered that Mark wasn't used to being yelled at, couldn't handle being yelled at... but he didn't yell at Mark. He was just... surprised. 

"Um... hi Roger..." 

Mark's voice sounded small, like he was scared. Nervous. Roger blamed himself. A relatively short time away from Mark and he'd not only forgotten to be careful not to hurt him, but Mark had become scared of him, nervous around him. Now the filmmaker was saying something else. "Um.. if this is a bad time... um..." 

Roger pulled Mark closer to him, wrapping the filmmaker in a big hug. He couldn't hear any more of Mark's uncertain talking. It was muffled, muffled from Mark's having to talk to Roger's pullover. Roger hadn't realised he was hugging Mark that hard. He let go, slowly, so that the filmmaker wouldn't think he was being shoved away. Roger still cared about his filmmaker, still felt the need to protect him, to be there for him. 

For the first time in his life, Roger was guilty about running away. He'd left his filmmaker alone, all alone in New York. In the worst part of New York... 

Even though Mark hadn't been alone, Collins and Maureen and Joanne had been there, Mark had been without Roger, and now Roger was realising that he'd missed his filmmaker, something it had taken him all this time to face up to. 

Mark, having regained his control over his breathing, which had been stopped while in Roger's bear hug, tilted his head to one side and looked at Roger carefully. Roger looked back at him, studying his filmmaker's face. 

"Can I come in now?" asked Mark. Roger, now ashamed to have left his friend standing outside, not really "outside" outside, but not inviting him into his into his room, the place he lived. Roger stepped aside to let Mark walk in to the place Roger had been calling his home for the last seven months. 

So it was a bit messy, with clothes in a few rough piles around the room, an unmade bed, unwashed dishes. The room said 'Roger lives here', but the one thing that had made it home to Roger was that his guitar sat in its case on the bed. Where his guitar was, Roger was, but this place had never been home to Roger. Not really. Home was in a loft in New York, on the corner of Eleventh and Avenue B. He had made that loft home. 

Mark sat down on the one chair in the room, a ratty synthetic leather thing which rarely provided comfort to the person sitting on it, as the flaps of material poked into the legs and back, and often got stuck in clothes. 

"Want me to get you something, Mark? A coffee?" Roger began walking towards the sink, but Mark stopped him. 

"Um, no. Roger, you couldn't make anything if you tried." Roger grinned and pulled a packet from behind the kettle. 

"It's instant. You get a spoon, put some in a cup..." Roger found a clean cup and demonstrated. "Then you turn on kettle, and when it boils you pour in the water. See, I'm learning!" 

"Yes. Okay. You've proved that. Okay. But Roger, I don't have time. I have to go back to New York, and you're coming with me." 

Roger turned off the kettle, slightly disappointed that Mark wouldn't get to try his coffee. He faced Mark and looked him in the eye, squatting slightly to do so. 

"Mark. What. Is. Going. On? You didn't have to come all the way out here to collect me, you know. I was coming back soon. I was! I was packing up - see?" He stood back up, defiantly. He was going back! Pointing to a bag, half hidden under a pile of clothes, he continued to make his point. "See - my clothes are already being packed! My guitar is in its case, which is closed, ready to be moved, my - " 

Mark held a hand up to stop Roger. 

"I know. Now. I didn't when I was in New York. You didn't call, didn't write... how were we supposed to know what you were doing, when you were coming back... if you were coming back at all... whether you were sick, whether you'd found a - " Mark paused, holding back a rush of emotion. " - a girlfriend, whether you had enough AZT? Roger, you forgot about us..." 

"I didn't forget, Mark! I just didn't call you every day like your dear darling mommy does. You never answer the phone, always you screen, and you know I always come back! You didn't have to come out here to get me... how would you know whether I'd follow you back, anyway, like your little puppy followed you to school? Maybe I wouldn't have been here, Mark. What if I was out, playing a gig? You were just going to stand there until I got back? And why didn't you write to me? I even left my address this time, but I didn't hear from you, either. So don't get all uptight and start lecturing me, look at yourself!" 

Roger knew Mark wouldn't like that. Mark didn't. His face was crumpling, and the filmmaker appeared close to tears. Roger had gone too far. He knew it. Mark had gone back into his shell while Roger had been gone. Roger had just broken it. He knew Mark probably had tried to write, like he had, but the words wouldn't have come out onto the page, and it would have been scrunched into a ball an thrown towards the bin, only to be picked up again later and copied out neatly in case it could be continued. He knew Mark would have been thinking about him, missing him maybe every day. And he welcomed him like this. A fight. 

"Oh, God. I'm sorry, Mark. I didn't mean it..." Roger apologised. It was pretty good. Roger Davis, apologising. And Mark didn't have his camera... he'd just repeat it for Mark when he did. 

Mark shook his head and waved his hand, dismissing Roger. 

"You never do. But I don't have time to fight. If you're not coming, I'll go back by myself. Joanne needs her car to get to work - she can't walk all the time or she'll never get any sleep." Which was true, Roger recalled. Joanne lived with Maureen, but it was further away from her office... if she had to walk, it would take her maybe three-quarters of an hour to get there. An hour and a half a day, plus all the work Joanne did after hours, would take a lot out of her day, and with Maureen, who would wait impatiently for Joanne to finish so that they could go out... Joanne wouldn't get any sleep, no. 

"Joanne lent you her car to come and get me? What's so important, Maureen wants me back there so she can get me to play guitar at a protest?" 

"No, Roger, it's more serious than that. Collins is sick, Roger. We think this is it, and he wants to see you. Joanne lent me her car to come and get you because we didn't think you'd be back before it was over... Roger, you have to come back." 

"Collins?" 

Roger stood in shock as Mark nodded, slowly. Collins had always seemed so strong. He was never sick, always took his AZT. This couldn't be it... but if Mark said it was... 

"Help me pack. But first, you have coffee." Roger grinned and turned back to the kettle, putting it on again. "You look like you need it." 

To Mark's surprise, the coffee was pretty good. And Roger was packing up. He picked up the piles of clothes, and one by one, stuffed the piles in the bag. It bulged when it was done, but it held. He took the cup from Mark, and rinsed it in the sink. Mark came over and they did the dishes, so that Roger wasn't leaving the room in a bad state for the next desperate person who needed to stay there. 

Finally, Roger said goodbye to the room he had stayed in for seven months, and, leaving the bed to the cleaners, who came in once a fortnight, closed the door. Carrying his guitar in one hand and his bag in the other, he headed towards Joanne's car, and Mark held the boot open for him. He put his things in, and told Mark he'd be back in a minute. Roger had rent to settle. Mark offered most of a wad of notes Joanne had given to him for the journey, but Roger shook his head. Mark got in the car, and waited while Roger crossed the road and entered a dirty grey building. 

Taking a lift to the third floor, he knocked on the door of his landlord. It was opened by a young girl, the daughter. Taking money out of his pocket, he gave it to her, and said he was sorry but his friend in New York was dying and he had to go home. He wouldn't be back. 

He heard her crying as he went down the stairs. He never went up them, but always went down. It was easier than waiting for the lift to come back. It also gave him time to think. The girl had a crush on him, but he wouldn't have her. It was too soon, and she was too young, only fifteen. He wasn't breaking any appointments, not running out on any gigs, but a few more days and he would have had some more lined up. 

But he was going home. With his filmmaker, the person who made home, home. His old audiences would be waiting, and he had a few new songs, had learned a few new tricks that he could amuse them with. He was, in fact, ready to go home. 

It was a sad, yet happy Roger who got in the car, ready for Mark to take him home. Home. Where he wanted to be, and right now, needed to be. 


	2. I can't believe he's gone

_A/N: Thanks to JJ and Triskell for their help with this chapter. Without them, I doubt you'll be reading this now._

When Mark and Roger arrived back in New York, they went straight to the hospital where Collins was. It was where Mimi had been, too, when she was dying. Roger remembered walking through the same corridors he and Mark were running through now on their way to see Collins, on his way to see Mimi. It was different, going to see her... she had been hit by a car on her way to work one night, and while she looked alright, underneath the sheets of the hospital bed her body was bandaged, covering the wide gashes where glass on the road had cut into her, and the horrible mess that the car had left her right leg to be, a bleeding mass of muscle and bone. It had hurt Roger to see her like that, looking and acting fine but hiding her pain, it had hurt him even more to learn that several of her wounds had become infected, and she wouldn't have the strength to fight her death. He had held her hand as she died, listened to the beep-beep of the monitor change to a single, long, "beeeeeeeeeep". When it finished, he had expected Mark's mom to start leaving an annoying message, but he had instead been torn away from the body of his love and taken out of the room, only to see them wheel her... it, for she had left it, what had made it her had gone... it past, and take it away. 

He saw a doctor striding down the corridor, Mark pulled Roger close to the wall, so they could let him, and the body on the gurney behind him, pass. Roger looked at it, wondering who it had been, and who they'd left behind... 

They kept going, reaching the waiting room of the wing where Mark said Collins was. Joanne was waiting for them, Maureen standing on the other side of the room talking to one of the nurses. She looked upset, and it didn't seem to Roger that she was trying to chat the nurse up, like she had been when she'd been in to visit Mimi. Mark and Roger stopped, standing still as Joanne rose and came over to them. She had been crying. Roger knew then, that they had come too late. 

"How long?" he asked. 

"An hour, they just wheeled him out." 

"We saw. He... they... passed us on our way in." Mark was overcome, leaning against the wall and then sinking down to sit on the floor. He was tired - they'd hardy stopped on the way back, making the trip across the country in less than 48 hours - and he didn't need to hear that he'd rushed across the country and back and ultimately failed to do what he was asked to do. Roger balled his fists. It wasn't fair. Mark shouldn't have to go through this... 

"Nonononononononono, this isn't right, this isn't fair! It should've been me! I deserved it more than he did! Why?" Joanne took a step closer to Roger. 

"I don't know." 

Roger banged his fists on the wall. It wasn't fair. He sat next to Mark, and put his arms around the filmmaker, who, this time, couldn't hold back his tears. 

"It'll be alright, Mark, we'll make it through. I'm going to stay with you... I'm not going to leave you again." Mark leaned in and allowed Roger to hug him, rocking him gently, not trying to calm him, but being there like he hadn't been there the last seven months, like he should've been there. 

"He wrote you a letter, Roger. He made me promise to give it to you as soon as I saw you." Roger looked up and took an arm away from Mark to receive the letter, and watching as Joanne went to comfort Maureen. There were only four of their little family left now... Angel, Mimi and Collins had died, and nobody knew where Benny was. He'd distanced himself from them since Mimi died, whether he blamed them or whether he had just moved on was something they'd never know. 

Roger unfolded the piece of paper and looked at the letter Collins had written him before he died. He nudged Mark, who looked up from Roger's shoulder, and they read the letter together. 

_"Dear Roger,_

_Probably you're on your way here as I write this. I couldn't hold on to see you again before I leave, and I'm sorry. I see Angel waiting for me - coming closer all the time. She wants me to go with her, I dare not keep her waiting._

_Told Mark to come and get you. He kept trying to write, but never felt his letters were good enough. Roger, he needs you now to keep going. You can't leave him alone. _

_Mark's always been strong, but sooner or later he's going to break. Nobody can be that strong forever. You have to look after him, make sure he'll be okay. It's your turn to help him through the hard times now. You can do it._

_I have faith in you._

_Collins."_

Roger wiped away a solitary tear. He had to be strong, be there for Mark. From now on, his crying for the deaths of his friends, his family, would be inside. 

Even the pristine white walls were in shadow, as those that Collins had left behind stood, and together left the waiting room, and then the hospital, with its memories and fresh wounds from death left behind, fading away through the rear windscreen of Joanne's car, as Roger looked back. The hurt was still deep in Roger, and would always be there, painful and ready to knock him out at the first instant he was reminded of it. But his tears and his pain would be inside, as he had promised himself, and as he now promised Collins, somewhere up there, beyond the grey skies, with his Angel. 

There was still the funeral to organise, and they had to move Roger back into the loft. The latter wouldn't be hard, considering that Roger had one rather large bag and his guitar, but the funeral wouldn't be that easy. They couldn't expect Benny to pay again, nor could they pay for it themselves, even using all of their savings, and they knew nobody would organise it for them knowing that they couldn't pay. But they could think about that, even leave it to Joanne. She'd find some way, have some contact, that would help them to manage. It had to be done, but first, Mark was speaking to Joanne, telling Joanne to drop them off here, they'd walk the rest of the way. And Roger realised that they were at the end of his street. His street. Where he lived, with Mark. His home. Underneath his grief and his pain, he was relieved and excited and happy, all at once. Home. 

The car soundlessly pulled up against the curb, and Roger unloaded his guitar and his bag from the boot. It was a modern, comfortable car, undoubtedly it came with the job, but it didn't fit in around here, where hardly anybody had a car, let alone one that ran more than once a week. 

He waved Joanne and Maureen away, and followed Mark home. 

He'd almost forgotten what it meant to him to trudge up the stairs after heaving the door open with his shoulder, his whole body. Even his guitar felt heavy by the time he got to the top, but as Mark opened their door and Roger walked into the loft that was home, that looked almost exactly the same as he had left it, it didn't feel heavy at all. He put the case in its usual spot next to the couch, where the dirty carpet still bore the outline of the case, where dirt couldn't reach, where stains couldn't mar. He walked into his bedroom and put his bag down next to his bed. It was all his. He was home. 

He still couldn't believe how close everything was to the way he had left it. It was obvious Mark had been living here still, of course, and that Mark had been in this room, gone through every drawer, looked in every possible place for something that had been left behind, something to hold onto. He knew he'd left nothing important and private behind, but Roger was still uneasy about Mark being in his room. They never went into each others rooms uninvited. Ever. 

Roger smiled, knowing that Mark must've missed him more this time, more than any other time. Knowing that Mark was glad to have him home, and that he was glad to be home, with Mark. For though the last seven months had seen him call a dank flat in Santa Fe home, home was really here in his loft in New York City, though it would never be the same now that he could never look out the window and see Collins waving, waiting for the key, and he couldn't dart downstairs to see Mimi when he was lonely. Nor could he return without seeing Mark's smiling face, resting on the arm of the couch, glasses askew, hair rumpled, seeing one of his films on the television, watching him edit it, not knowing what he was doing but appreciating how it improved what he was watching. It was, indeed, home. And he thought he could live there again. 

"I thought you would be needing this..." Roger turn and saw Mark at the door, holding a small box in his hand. "I put all your picks and your toothbrush and your spare razor and everything else in here so I didn't lose anything in case you asked for them or you came home and wanted your stuff and I -" 

"Mark. Calm down, for God's sake. I'm home, you look shit, and I'm fine unpacking my stuff so you go have a shower, get some clean stuff on, shave or whatever and stop fussing over me like you're my mother." 

Mark looked shocked but nodded, put the box down on the end of the bed, and left. Roger picked up the box and quickly rummaged through it. The one thing Mark hadn't mentioned was the one that Roger had been secretly hoping that would still be here, the one thing he'd learnt to miss when he was in Santa Fe, but deliberately hadn't taken, thinking that he'd never want to see it again. It was only small, only a photograph, but the only one he had of himself and Mimi. Later, he'd try to find one of Collins and Angel and frame them both. But for now he was content to just have the one of Mimi, something to remember her by. 

He could hear the shower running, through the wall, and sat down to unpack, knowing that he wouldn't be interrupted for some time, while Mark was dressing and maybe then they'd go and get something to eat. 


End file.
